


Pretty Boy

by HarryXIX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Soft Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 05:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarryXIX/pseuds/HarryXIX
Summary: Under trees only lit by moonlight or the blinding rays of sun that reflected onto his face by the lake, he was dazzling. Harry understood his beauty was superficial, the sun could be reflecting off his eyes and suddenly his beauty would evaporate. With every condescending spit and sneer he was left purely ugly. How someone so apparently soft could speak so harshly, act so high and mighty in a world that had become so depressed had baffled him. He would sit in soft jumpers, lounge in jogging bottoms and kick about in muggle sneakers and still be able to scowl at anyone who dared to interact with him.OrDraco thinks he's dirty. Harry? Not so much.





	Pretty Boy

Draco Malfoy was pretty, unfairly pretty. His features were pointed and framed by near-white locks. His eyes were a stone-cold grey, his lips a deep pink that stood out from his cool pale skin. He was the epitome of winter encaptured in pastel blue hoodies decorated with golden snitches. His cold demeanour helped to encapsulate his attitude of snow and ice that brewed in his core. He was pretty, so pretty that Harry had wanted to swoon the second he had entered the Great Hall on their return to the 8th year.

Under trees only lit by moonlight or the blinding rays of sun that reflected onto his face by the lake, he was dazzling. Harry understood his beauty was superficial, the sun could be reflecting off his eyes and suddenly his beauty would evaporate. With every condescending spit and sneer he was left purely ugly. How someone so apparently soft could speak so harshly, act so high and mighty in a world that had become so depressed had baffled him. He would sit in soft jumpers, lounge in jogging bottoms and kick about in muggle sneakers and still be able to scowl at anyone who dared to interact with him.

He was so beautifully ugly. A flower embedded in a field of stinging nettles. It made Harry so confused.

\-- --

Harry had stepped onto the plush of Hogwarts’ field. The lake was murky under the blackening sky, the moon stood high amongst the stars and let itself reflect onto the near-black waters. A lone blond sat cross-legged with his face in his hands. His body shook, wracked with sobs intertwined with the bitter Autumn wind. Harry stood on his lonesome, lingering outside the castle doors and observed how the angelic demon was crying his heart in nothing but rags. The jumper he adorned was thin and riddled with tears - reminiscent of the cast-offs Harry had grown with. His glasses had begun to fog as he realised he could feel his empty soul turn sad again, watching someone that always seemed so mighty fall had made his heart swell with pain.

Draco Malfoy was a bastard, an arrogant, horrible, selfish bastard. He was egotistical, hardly nice and never pleasant company. At the beginning of 8th year, he had been detestable. All anyone had seen was someone on the losing side of the war still making snide comments and managing laughs at other people’s misfortunes. It had turned to a hope for everyone, to see normality through glassy, haunted eyes. Watching the ‘Slytherin Prince’ turn to a whining mess of sobs was devastating. Everyone had clung to Draco for support, he was a walking angel who hadn’t let the war affect him yet suddenly, that wasn’t true.

A small spit of rain began to fall over their heads, Harry clung tight to the castle walls, hiding under one of Hogwarts’ decorative arches to keep himself dry. He kept observing, watching as Draco near froze himself, the downpour became heavier and Draco made no attempt to move. He huddled deep into the tattered jumper but continued to stay seated on the grass that was going to become slushy and difficult to walk on at any minute. It kept getting heavier, not easing. It was miserable, each drop was a bullet to the ground, each drop was sharp and painful.

Harry knew he had to do something, Draco could get hypothermia if he stayed out here any longer. He stepped out from his arch and walked as fast as he could to the shivering mess. He cast a silent warming charm when he got closer, Draco looked up - fright was constant in his eyes. Harry offered his hand to help Draco up and he shook his hands.

“Leave me alone, Potter,” He spat. He kept his arms firmly wrapped around his body and sat under the freezing rain. If it was even possible, it fell heavier. The wind starting to pick up too, turning the air to an unpleasant chill that penetrated even the strongest warming charms.

“You’re going to freeze, Malfoy,” He stated and left his hand out.

“Maybe if I freeze I’ll finally be clean,” Draco mumbled. He let his left hand tug at his right wrist, his nails gently grazing the skin as though he was tempted at the thought of scratching at his skin, anything to get rid of the itch underneath that made him feel so unclean, impure. This disgust was nestled into his heart, he could scratch at his body with scouring pads, take as many showers as he wanted and leave red lines painting his body yet he was still disgusting. He just wanted to be clean.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked, his voice was calm as though trying to tempt a creature. He was apprehensive, trying to be careful to make sure Draco didn’t actually get ill from staying outside.

“Leave me alone,” He spat again. Harry sighed and reached for his wand.

“We can do this one of two ways, I can take you inside, walk you to the Slytherin dorms or I can cast a body bind, levitate you to the dorm, yell for Pansy and Blaise and let them see you like this. Choose,” His voice was alarmingly calm to say he had practically just threatened Draco.

“You left the third option out where you can leave me alone, let me go in of my own accord and then berate me for it tomorrow when I enter the hall sick,” Draco said. His teeth were chattering as he spoke.

“Ah, so the second option it is,” He spoke smugly. Draco shook his head and just stood up.

“Happy?” His voice was small. Harry didn’t like it at all, he wanted him to spit and scream and yell at him for always being the hero- “Why do you even care?” he heard when his thoughts got interrupted.

“You’re too pretty for this type of masochism.” The truth slipped. Harry had kept his firm beliefs of Draco’s looks to himself for years, since 4th year when he noticed how elegant he looked jumping out of a tree.

“I’m not clean, Potter, leave me out here. I can’t be ‘pretty’ if I’m dirty,” Draco whispered. Harry shook his head in confusion. He grabbed Draco by the wrist and pulled him towards the castle, letting the mud slide around their feet in an attempt to get them away from the cold.

“What do you mean you’re not clean?” Harry asked when they finally got to the steps. Draco was quiet as he ascended, making sure to hurry his pace and get away from Harry before he confessed to how he actually felt. “Draco?”

“Since when do you call me Draco?” He stilled. He was barely at the top but noticed Harry had managed to catch up to him swiftly.

“Since I wanted your attention,” He bit his tongue to the true reason. Draco had been ‘Draco’ in Harry’s head since the manor when he didn’t identify Harry.

Draco just shook his head and bounded up towards the doors, throwing them open and making a mad dash towards the 8th year common room.

\-- --

Have you ever seen a sunset so beautiful you cried? Where the colours blend so beautifully together in seas of pink and orange that when the moon rises you miss the flashes of purple that were mesmerising you before it rose. Draco was a sunset, the high blush on his cheeks, from whenever Harry caught his gaze, that mixed with royal blue hoodies and now baggy trousers made him want to sob his heart out.

He was a work of art from the artist with the lazy strokes, he wasn’t a Mona Lisa, he wasn’t prim and proper or a quirky but perfect Pablo Picasso painting. If Draco was painted by an artist, he was a Jackson Pollock piece. Simplistic and by most considered slothful due to how simplistic the paint splatters were. It was still captivating to behold, watch as each splatter’s colour was carefully chosen to compliment the others, never clashing and still considered high class even though in nature it appeared idle.

If he was a musician, he would be acoustic. He would sit on low bar stools in tight skinny jeans and plaid shirts with only an old guitar and a gentle hum to accompany the backing. He wouldn’t have the perfection of autotune or the harshness of distorted guitars, he was simplistic yet still attractive. He would pull a crowd with only a broken C major. Draco Malfoy wasn’t a Meat Loaf song with ever-changing tempo and tone, wasn’t a rebellious The Who song or an upbeat Earth, Wind and Fire song. He was alike to Sleep by The Smiths, a slow drowsy song with a depressing undertone. Harry couldn’t stop seeing him as the boy in the rain.

Draco’s smiles were suddenly too wide and never quite crinkled the corner of his eyes, every laugh never seemed hearty and full like before but instead like it resided in the back of his throat opposed to dormant in his chest. Harry didn’t like to acknowledge his findings but seeing that all their hope that Draco was okay so everyone else would be was unfounded meant he had to. He wanted the boy to be happy, for whatever reason that he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

\-- --

The next time Harry caught Draco in the rain he was in a lavender sweatshirt, leggings and converse. His body was shaking, fringe dipping into his eyes and bottom lip trembling from the combination of cold and tears. He sighed, rolled his eyes and stormed over next to him. He sat right next to Draco on the floor, not bothering to move again. He could feel Draco shaking from where he was sat, he was gasping for air. He seemed frozen to the floor as every piece of rain appeared to shatter against the wet floors.

“Draco?” Harry asked quietly. Draco didn’t say anything - he looked so unsure of his voice. His arms were wrapped around the middle of his body, all he did was cry more at Harry’s presence. A sure arm fell over Draco’s shoulder, a soothing pattern being rubbed into his skin, a gentle whisper fell onto deaf ears. He clung onto the warmth as his thoughts whirled around his mind, a mini helter-skelter of self-deprecation

When his brain calmed the gentle mutters were still going, often just gentle reminders to breathe, the hand was still secure around him as his body shook still, although if it was the aftershocks of adrenaline or the pinch of wind biting his skin he couldn’t be so sure.

Harry waited patiently for the tears to stop, let his hand carefully smooth over the other’s shoulder slowly. Each movement had a careful precision, not wanting to startle Draco and cause another wave of tears. He let Draco take control, allowed the broken boy out of his hold and just turned slowly to face him.

“Why are you still here? You did your hero thing, you can leave now,” His voice was weak, throat hoarse and lips a glaring red.

“What makes you think you’re a charity case?” Harry asked. Draco huffed and properly turned to face Harry.

“That’s all you, be the hero, be superficial. You said last time you only helped because I’m pretty. Is that all I am Potter? Am I just a sad little pretty boy that you can boost your ego with?” His voice seemed angry but his words held no malice, just pain.

“You’re not just pretty,” Harry sighed. He was trying to gather his thoughts in a way that wouldn’t make him sound like an insensitive git. “You’re more than your looks, I do like your face, I like when you properly smile because your cheeks go a bit pink and the whole harsh and cold thing slips. I like when you laugh too, mainly because you’re laughing at me and I like when you’re giving me attention. I like that you come into the rain, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons, here’s where your mask just slips, I like when you’re not being Malfoy, I like when you’re just Draco. I like when you’re letting yourself be out because that’s when I know you’re not some insufferable prat.”

“And how long did that speech take to prep?” His voice was snarky.

“Can you stop thinking I’m out for your blood or whatever it is? Can I not genuinely want to be in your life?” He asked, his voice edging on annoyance. He needed to keep his patience, if Draco saw he was making Harry angry he would use it against him.

“Someone I harassed for 7 years? Someone I tried to crucio and ended up bleeding on a floor because of? Forgive my scepticism,” He sighed. His voice lost any trace of trying, he just sat there.

They sat again in silence, bodies still lingering closely. The grass was cold and damp, the clouds were beginning to scatter yet the downcast of the night just held the lingering darkness. Harry inched as close as he could without physically touching and just went with what his heart wanted to say.

“The war is in the past, I want our animosity there too.”

“I’m trusting you Potter,” Draco’s voice quivered.

“Harry,” He corrected.

“Harry.”

\-- --

Draco was still in the shower. The flannel ran over his body smoothly, unlike the scouring pads he would’ve used merely weeks ago. His cleanliness was something he still felt insecure about, he saw Vince sometimes, he saw Vince’s blood on his hands, Vince’s blood seemed to clot up his eyes and he’d just see the body all over again. He sometimes would still sit in the rain with only thin clothing on, let the ice hit him and make him feel cleansed.

Other times he’d set with Harry, drink coffee in the common rooms while lounging in his overpriced jogging bottoms, the sweaters were no longer his though. He would sometimes wear Harry’s old Weasley jumpers -much to Ron’s disgust- or even hoodies from when he was 15 due to how big they were. It was nice, nice to be clouded by the scent of broom wax and treacle tart, nice to not question his sanity, nice to not feel sad or guilty.

He liked Harry more than the sweaters. He liked in moments of weakness when Harry would sit with him quietly, hush reassurances and lightly stroke Draco’s hair, he’d bring tea and biscuits, listen to whatever had happened to set him off and just hold him and let him cry. He liked when Harry would smile at his humour, he liked when Harry took off his glasses, he liked when Harry smiled and laughed. He liked Harry a lot. He liked when he’d see Draco in his sweaters and his eyes would light up as though Draco was a god. Sometimes if Draco was especially bad, Harry would lay gentle kisses on his cheek and forehead, he’d call Draco his ‘Pretty Boy’.

 These times, Draco really didn’t mind.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please comment, leave kudos and everything else. I'm so sorry if the ending seems rushed.


End file.
